A Red-Rose Chain

My hand was clapped tightly over my mouth. I didn’t remember putting it there, or putting my other hand against the dumpster for balance. All I could see was my Fetch, my sister, lying on the ground in an enchanted slumber that no true love’s kiss or glass coffin could fix.

“Oh, sweet Oberon,” I said, my voice devoid of strength. “What happened?” Night-haunts were immune to elf-shot. May had even said so.

Apparently, Fetches weren’t.

“I don’t know,” said Quentin. He was still standing in the shadow of the dumpster. He looked younger than he had when we left King Rhys’ Court, like all his strength and confidence had been ripped away when the arrow entered May’s flesh. I knew I should put my arms around him, that I should pull him to me and tell him that I was going to find a way to fix this, but I couldn’t make myself move. All I could do was stare at May, so pale and small and unmoving.

My Fetch was never unmoving. Even when she slept, she tossed and turned and squirmed, like she was secretly a hurricane forced into a girl-body and told to exist as best she could among people who had no idea what it meant to secretly be a weather pattern. But now, thanks to the elf-shot in her shoulder, she could no more move her body than she could turn back into a night-haunt and fly away on the wings she had traded for solidity and size. She had become a Fetch because I was her hero, and because she wanted to warn me that death was coming. Somehow that single, selfless choice had led us here, to this alley, and to silence.

“October.” Tybalt’s voice was low. “We cannot stay here. We must move.”

“How can we get her back to our room?” I lowered my hand, turning to look at him. “She can’t hold her breath. You have to be awake to hold your breath. I don’t even know how to get into the knowe from this side.”

“Does it matter if she holds her breath?” Quentin’s question was hesitant. I turned to look at him. He bit his lip before saying, “She can’t . . . I mean, she can’t suffocate, right? She can’t die that way. She can’t die at all. So does it matter if she holds her breath?”

“Not if I go quickly. I will take her first, and return for the two of you, if you can hold yourselves safe that long.” Tybalt spoke slowly, like every word was being ripped out of him. In a way, I suppose they were. He didn’t like leaving me alone when there was any chance I might be in danger, and this was sort of the definition of a bad situation. And at the same time, if he tried to run the Shadow Roads with May in his arms and the two of us holding onto his shirt, he ran the risk of losing us.

“Go,” I said. “We’ll be here.”

Tybalt nodded once before walking over and scooping May into his arms. She dangled limp, with no muscular resistance or rigor to keep her in place. As I watched, he gently lifted her head, bracing it against his chest to keep from hurting her. Then the shadows against the alley wall parted like a curtain, and he stepped through and was gone.

I frowned. Something was wrong—apart from the obvious, which was very wrong, and almost enough to keep me from noticing subtleties. I crouched, looking at the place where May’s body had been propped. There were no other arrows. Either our archer had managed to catch her on the first shot, or whoever it was had been careful to clean up after themselves. We still had an arrow, since there was one embedded in my Fetch’s arm, but it would have lost much of its potency when its poison rubbed off into her blood. Tracking the person who mixed the spell would be easier with an arrow that hadn’t been used.

There were no footprints, either. The dryness I had been so happy about when Quentin fell in the alley was a problem now. At least mud and wet ground would have increased the odds of someone leaving a trace of themselves behind.

“Toby?” Quentin’s voice was hesitant, like he was afraid of interrupting me. “Did you find something?”